


Work in Progress

by Nymm_at_Night



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Canon Compliant, Illustrated, Jeremy Heere: Cuddle Slut, M/M, Many pictures- 2k per picture, Michael Mell: Useless Lesbian, Pining, Take Your Fandom to Work Day, This isn't a wip, Touch-Starved, Weirdly Meta, internet friendships, lots of people talking about sex but not having any, post squip, this is a finished story the title's just meta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-17 07:07:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11846487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymm_at_Night/pseuds/Nymm_at_Night
Summary: Drarrymotter1015 and MoonGoon forge a friendship through fanfiction. On the other side of the screen, Michael and Jeremy try and figure out what's left of theirs. Otherwise known the Fanfiction Writer! Au nobody asked for, but I wrote anyways.





	Work in Progress

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to center the texts, but uh, I'm in rural Germany and nearly got stranded in Schrabisch Hall, so I'm sort of just. Done. Just read this, please, let my suffering be worth it.

See, here's the thing. Michael isn't an idiot, and he's not terribly naive. He didn't think things were going to slot together perfectly once Jeremy got released from the hospital. Shit had had hit the fan, and even if Jeremy never really told him what it had happened, he could accept it. That's the thing about friendship, real friendship. Even if you tell eachother everything, sometimes you shouldn't have to.

And that's okay, except for the fact that he still doesn't  _ get _ half the shit that's changed. The fixation on appearance, the jumpiness, the weird thing for physical contact, that shit should be gone. He had a voice in his head telling him what to do, but that thing's fried like a cheap calculator, so why aren't things back to normal? What little he's heard from Rich and Jeremy just doesn't line up with how his best friend's been acting, but no one's offering answers, so Michael just pretends he doesn't notice it. No need to embarrass Jeremy over it if he doesn't want to talk.

Besides, it's not that bad. Jeremy has had more and more good days since he got released from Beth Israel, laughing that adorable, wheezing giggle that makes Michael's heart skip a beat more often, joking about videogames and their weekend plans with Jenna and Brooke, and hanging out after school with Christine, even after the breakup. He may be skittish, but now when he walks the halls, he isn't trying to hide from bullies or whatever social cataclysm his brain's conjured up. Life's easier now, and Michael's so glad to see Jeremy hanging out with their actual, real life, more than one person friend group, he can almost forget the times it all falls apart.

Even if they're rare, the bad days scare the shit out of Michael. It's like the last month didn't happen, and he took a fucking time machine back to November whenever Jeremy walks into school wearing tight tee shirts and ripped pants instead of soft, baggy cardigans and skinny jeans, face in a smirk that doesn't match his nervous pallor or the fear in his eyes. 

Michael does what he always does when that happens. Avoid any sensitive topics, keep Jeremy from doing anything dumb, and wait for the stranger wearing Jeremy's skin to disappear, or for his friend to come forward with whatever's eating at him. He hasn't though, just holds Michael's hand tight enough to bruise, face a patchwork of longing looks and anxiety until whatever's haunting him passes on.

Today was like that, and Jeremy's doppleganger hadn't come home with him that evening, murmuring something about family time, so Michael's left alone to take comfort in one of the few enduring constants in his life, aside from Jeremy.

_ Soldiers of the Stars _ was not a quality TV show, even when it aired in 1993. It was sort of like if Power Rangers and He-Man had a surrogate child with Cowboy Bebop, if that child was bludgeoned in infancy by Standards and Practices. The first few episodes were remarkably coarse for a children's cartoon, and then as soon as the executives got pissed, the old plotline was revised, or more accurately, cut to pieces like the network was trying to make a paper snowflake out of the script. No more of the Soldiers navigating a universe wracked with conflict and struggling to bring peace to it, while dealing with the harrowing consequences of war, and more wacky sitcom plots and poorly edited in talking animal sidekicks. They never really dropped the original storyline, but it was dragged down by an endless stream of pandering to toddlers.

But here's the thing- halfway through the production of season two, the writers learned it was being cancelled, and  _ burned  _ the revised scripts, switching back to the original space opera.

Naturally, that mysterious, wild ride of a story makes Michael love it even more than he did when he was a kid. He and Jeremy used to stay up late for when the networks put it on to fill timeslots, watching it under their pillow fort and going absolutely nuts over the space stuff (Jeremy had a big black hole phase, and freaked out every time they showed up. Michael was more partial to the alien of the week). They used to spend hours acting out elaborate stories about becoming Soldiers under the old bridge by the woods, imagining aquatic alien in the water and launching paper “spaceships” into the current. Hell, Michael's pretty sure his mom still has the costumes from when they went as Clyde and Aaron for Halloween in sixth grade, all gap toothed and tiny.

So Michael hits up Seven Eleven for snacks, puts aside his phone, and settles back for a long-ass marathon of 90's edginess and cheese. He falls asleep halfway through season one, but when he wakes up, bleary eyed and stiff, this binge naturally leads to the next best way to appreciate quality nostalgic animation.

Smutty gay fanfiction.

Michael's always been pathetic when it comes to writing, ideas twisting off and tangling, and never having the stamina or focus or support to actually finish, but AO3 easily makes up for his failings. It has a surprisingly big archive for  _ Soldiers of the Stars,  _ and Michael is ready to read enough of it that he can forget his problems. Yeah, masturbating his problems away probably isn't the best coping mechanism- it never got Jeremy very far- but there's this one author who is just so  _ wonderful,  _ it's hard not to _. _

MoonGoon has posted an absolutely hilarious amount of fanfiction, and Michael devours every chapter.

It isn't perfect, and it's mostly porn, but then again, that doesn't matter. Michael isn't a snob, and he sure as hell knows good smut when he sees it. It's got the same sort of scandalous, raunchy, I-am-not-suppose-to-be-reading-this feel to it that Michael hasn't really gotten since he was eleven and sneaking into his dad's office to read about Draco and Harry banging in broom closets on the family desktop. It's got none of the gross inaccuracies that particular fic had either. Well, legendary virgin Michael Mell wouldn't know that, but at least the characters aren't using butterbeer as lube, and honestly, what more can you ask for?

Well, now that Michael's read MoonGoon's work, a lot.

Like amazing characterization that manages to take a kid's show from the nighties to a fucking high drama, edge of your seat, romance.

Like the descriptions that weave so perfectly into the narrative, they don't ever slow down the action.

Or the smut.

Holy fuck.

That shit is fucking  _ obscene. _

Michael, in the process of binge reading the entire archive of this guy's work, got interrupted by Jake at lunch and cracked the screen of his phone trying to stuff it into his backpack. Jeremy kept on touching his forehead and asking if he felt feverish for the rest of the day, he was so red.

So yeah, MoonGoon:1, Michael's heart and poor phone: 0.

He can't find it in him to be angry though, it's that good. Michael's pretty sure he has about a million new fetishes by the time he's done reading through his body of work, which is massive, considering the account was only made in December.

In a fit of impulsiveness, he kudoses  _ everything _ . He nearly comments too, but somehow actually voicing his opinion that this seven thousand words of sex tears and selfcest is a goddamn modern masterpiece is a little too much. It feels almost invasive.

So he tries for what he hopes comes off as politely distant admiration, but that all falls to pieces pretty quick when the real tipping point comes. Honestly, the whole mess starts at a somewhat unexpected time. 

Michael is trying his best to treat himself. Admittedly, that usually involves his best friend, several slushies, and indulging himself by not waking Jeremy up when he collapses onto his shoulder at three AM, but he's trying a new approach, since he's trying to get  _ away _ from the Droopy Dog expression Jeremy's been wearing lately.

Scalding hot bathwater, half a bottle of the fancy soap Brooke gave him for Christmas, and his lap top propped up next to the tub. Admittedly, it's really fucking awkward leaning out far enough to reach his computer, the lip of the tub digging into his stomach, but aside from that, it's pretty swank, just idly surfing the internet and pretending that Jeremy hadn't spent most of the day spacing out for no fucking reason, just thinking about good things.

Right. Good things, like the fact that he definitely aced that math test, or that Rich and Jake invited him to the movies or that holy shit, MoonGoon uploaded something.

Michael is in there like swimwear.

It's not porn this time, which is both disappointing and a blessing, because Michael really doesn't want to jack off in a bathtub. What it is, however, is a beautifully written, stream of consciousness piece about Assassin-Au!Aaron's turbulent romance with the evil Queen Ziacine, chronicling their relationship from blissful puppy love to Aaron's death at her hands when he tries to break away from her evil syndicate.

More importantly, there's an author's note at the end.

_ Hi guys! Thanks for reading- don't forget to comment or kudos if you liked it!! (I crave that sweet sweet validation!!!) _

Michael hit kudos on reflex.

_ Anyways, I just made a tumblr, so if you guys wanna chat, I'm there! Hit me up at moongoon.tumblr.com! _

And because Michael is tired, and falling half way out of the bath so he can read this without his glasses, and desperate for something to distract himself from the way Jeremy seems so distant, he does just that.

The blog is sparse, still using the default icon and theme, and Michael clicks through to the ask box and proceeds to word vomit into it.

** Hi, so like, I'm going to be honest, I've read like everything you've written and I just adore all of it. I really like how you write Aaron as sort of a broken paladin, who's trying to restore his former optimism and how Clyde sort of draws him out of his shell, because that's something that was really important in canon, and I feel a lot of people neglect that in favor of dealing with Clyde's emotional issues, and it sucks that people can't recognize Aaron's character depth and development, because it's really, really important. You really get into his headspace in a way I've never really seen before, and the way you deal with him getting seduced by Queen Ziacine is so real, I can't even describe it. And that one fic with the knotting, ho-ly shit. That was incredible and hot, and just so, so good. Basically, I love your porn and your angst and the fact that you update, like, once a week, and I can't wait until the next chapter of Cuffs is uploaded. **

Content with having expressed how much he fucking loves gay porn, Michael opens the drain, towels off, and collapses in bed.

Seven hours later, Michael snaps awake and immediately wishes for a Delorean so he can go back in time and stop himself from expressing to a stranger on the internet how much he fucking loves gay porn. Mournfully, he grabs his phone off the floor, and his glasses off the nightstand so he can check the time.

It's six AM, so Michael feels confident enough in his mad morning routine skills to flick open Tumblr and spent a few mindless minutes scrolling- fuck.

A red box glares at him from the little envelope icon on his dashboard. The notification stares him down, and Michael can feel a cold sweat on the back of his neck.

God, why must the world follow the rules of cause and effect?

Michael sighs and buries his head in the pillow, debating whether he should face the consequences of his tired, manic actions, delete his account and become an internet hermit, or wait until later, when curiosity gets the better of him and he looks anyways.

Fuck it.

He taps open the inbox and groans when he remembers he didn't even turn on anon.

_ wait, are you drarrymotter1015 on ao3? because if you are then like, holy shit??? you've actually kudosed everything on my account? oh my god, i am dying happy. like i was sort of wondering who the fuck is going to read 30k of clyde fucking werewolf!aaron, but the answer was you! i'm being weird, i know, but like? it just means a lot to hear from readers, because the internet is a spooky place and its kinda nice to know i'm not just like, throwing my porn off into the cold void!!! _

It's so earnest and bright, Michael feels himself flush. How is this guy so cool? You don't just get to be an incredible, prolific writer,  _ and _ be incredibly sweet.

He reads through the message again, mouthing the words to himself, and feels warmth flutter in his chest, followed by the dull ache of realization.

Oh.

_ Oh. _

Michael has a crush, which is dumb, because this is just some stranger on the internet, even if he's read every piece of porn on his account.

Still.

He has a  _ crush. _

That isn't that weird. Michael's had lots of crushes. It's easy to fall for the smooth lines of the dancer who walks by his house on the way home from the studio, the soft smile of the graveyard shift cashier at Seven Eleven, or the wheezy laugh of his best friend. They come and go and Michael takes solace in that. It's comforting, knowing that even if he never says anything or makes a move, never risks the inevitable sting of rejection, it's okay, because the infatuation always fades.

The dancer smokes.

The cashier is a bigot.

The best friend though, despite the way he spooks, lets emotions overwhelm common sense, and gets lost in his head, he's never been able to shake that crush. He doesn't act on it either, because he knows how bad it is to lose him, to be abandoned. He doesn't want to go through that again.

So yeah. This time it's the mysterious, bubbly, kinky-as-fuck porn writer, and the way he writes about beloved children's characters having gay orgies.

It isn't  _ that _ weird.

Michael comforts himself with that thought as he rolls out of bed and gets dressed.

 

* * *

Jeremy's waiting for him on steps to the school, and he slips his arm around Michael's as they filter into the hallways with the rest of the students. That still catches Michael a little off guard, but not in a bad way. Jeremy hadn't been terribly clingy before the SQUIP, but after getting out of the hospital, he'd just sort of muttered something about “In case I can't see you” and started holding his hand or leaning against Michael until he wrapped an arm around him. Michael hadn't asked any questions, and it had just sort of fallen into their routine- going to class holding hands, eating lunch with Jeremy's ankle hooked around his, playing videogames with their sides pressed together. He's seen him do it with other people, slipping an arm around Christine's shoulders or brushing his knees against Jenna's leg while they study, but Michael's the most frequent target of Jeremy's affections.

He kinda likes it. It makes him feel special.

Anyways, despite the weird touch thing, Jeremy looks pretty good. His eyes are bright and sharp today, and his hair is combed neatly, the fluffy curls swept across his forehead. 

Michael grins. It's his Jeremy, the one from before the SQUIP. “What's shaking, Jer?”

“Nothing much,” He laughs, pulling his textbooks out of the locker and clicking it shut. “Just had a really good morning today.”

“Did your dad make your eggs in a smiley face or something? You're never this happy in the morning.” Michael leaves the  _ anymore _ out.

“Maybe,” Jeremy grins and zips up his bag. It's not the one he bought while SQUIPed, but the old red one. The faded “BOYF” is still scrawled across the back, and Michael can't help the weird glowy feeling that rolls around his chest when he sees it- it's almost like a territory marker.

“Did Animal Planet run a dolphin marathon?”

Jeremy's laugh is a wheezy giggle, and it makes Michael's heart flutter. “God, I was thirteen! You had a fursona too!”

Visions of Blade the rainbow wolf-dragon flash behind Michael's eyes, and okay, consider the kid gloves  _ off.  _ “C'mon dude, you're killing me here. Was there a two for one deal on lotion and tissues or something?”

Jeremy goes beet red from the tips of his ears down to the neck of his cardigan and shoves Michael. “N-no, I can't-  _ Michael!” _

“Relax. Nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone does it.” 

Jeremy doesn't laugh like he used to, just huffs and pulls his backpack on.

“Look, I'm sorry,” Michael says, softer, wrapping his arm around Jeremy's stiff shoulders. “I didn't mean to shout to the whole school about how you're jerkin' your gerkin.”

Something flicks over Jeremy's face, a weird cocktail of dissatisfaction and anxiety, but he doesn't say anything about it, just sighs and does that weird little thing where he relaxes into Michael's touch. That's good enough for him- he doesn't press.

“It's fine.” Jeremy squirms out from underneath his arm with an apologetic smile. “See you at class, okay?”

Michael smiles and watches the thin line that is Jeremy Heere disappear into the throng.

* * *

Michael taps out a response to MoonGoon in study hall, shielding the cracked lense of his phone from prying eyes, like he's got a secret treasure map, except X marks the spot for some genuinely embarrassing smut. At least this time he uses the chat function instead of the askbox. He isn't a heathen.

** Heh, that is the nicest thing anyone has ever told me about my taste in porn. **

After a moment, the little typing icon pops up, and Michael watches the little dots go for a whopping five minutes.

_ speaking of which. _ 


_ like, is it okay if i send you a wip??? it's like, super rough, but i just need some feedback on it? _

_ i mean, it's okay if you don't want to. _

_ it's uh. _

_ it's _

_... _

_ i wrote seven thousand words about sex pollen, alright? _

_ fuck this is weird, i'm sorry _

Michael's face cracks open in utter glee, and glances around like a cartoon spy. Brooke waves to him from across the room before she goes back to work on her homework, but aside from that, no one even looks at him. There's something burning in his bones, fire crackling in little whispers of scandal and living on the edge, because he can't believe he's doing this in school.

** Dude, are you saying I get to read your shit without having to wait for you to post it? **

** Because sign me the FUCK up, buttercup. **

MoonGoon posts a link in the chat, and Michael clicks through to a Google Docs file in neat, eleven point arial. It's some good shit, weaving in the weird sex flower plot with Clyde's relationship issues and desire to get out from under Ziacine's thumb, as well as a blowjob that has no right being that filthy. Dutifully, he points out all the spelling errors and awkward wordings in neat little comments, then flips back over to Tumblr.

** I really like the part at the end where Ziacine is holding Clyde fucking Aaron over his head. That was fucking dark as shit, and I love it. **

_ thanks so much!!! was it too heavy handed? i really didn't want to make it like, super melodramatic. _

** Nah. It was just really realistic. Good shit, ten out of ten, would read again. **

_ heh, write what you know. _

Michael bites his lip, staring at the words like that'll explain everything, and shrugs. In for a penny, in for a pound.

** You wanna talk about it? **

_ nah, this fanfic is basically me converting my issues to smut, so you've pretty much got it all. _

There's an uncomfortably long pause, and Michael types out ten different responses, unable to settle on one that conveys “I understand”, “You're going to be fine”, and “Who do I need to punch?”. Thankfully, MoonGoon takes the decision out of his hands, and breaks the weird silence.

_ so, any suggestions? _

Michael frowns. The writing, as a whole is pretty good, but it feels likes something's... missing. It needs closure, something to bookend it and round off the jagged edges. He pauses, thinking, and types out his response.

** Okay, but have you considered an epilogue from Clyde's perspective? **

_ tell me more, drarry. _

Michael doesn't get jack shit done in study hall, mostly because they spend the rest of it trading ideas and suggestions between the two of them (Michael thinks that having Aaron jerk off to it is completely in character, but MoonGoon's worried it'll be too much). He leaves Mrs. Fleming's room with his hood up to hide his blush. Unfortunately, his best friend has killer eyesight.

“Michael, you're face matches your hood!” Jeremy wheezes as he falls into step with him. Michael jabs him in the ribs, but he just snorts and ducks away. “Just let me savour being the guy who isn't turning into a tomato!”

Michael grumbles, and after a moment with no sudden movements, Jeremy deems it safe to enter Michael's arm span again, pressing their sides together. Michael's heart soars, and he blurts out what's been rattling around his brain for weeks, but he's been putting off out of fear of rejection, like if he pushes, the SQUIP will come back and tear them apart. “Do you want to come over on Friday? Just us?”

Jeremy's smile is blinding. “Of course! Should I bring the Gamecube?”

“Fuck yeah!”

Michael sort of wants to frame this moment, in all its cheesy high school glory. It'd be nice to be able to pull it out whenever Jeremy's eyes get distant, and be able to remind himself that everything is fine.

* * *

Michael goes the extra mile when he gets home, tidying up his basement bedroom, stitching closed the holes in their bean bags, and getting his mom to make one of the weird German recipes Jeremy likes to translate from the family cookbooks and email to him at three in the morning.

It's all worth it when Jeremy arrives, cheeks pink from the cold, sniffs the air, and grins. “Did you guys make Kӓsespeztle? God, you're the best.”

Michael passes off his flush as being from all the winter air Jeremy's letting in, the bastard, and ushers him out of the cold. 

Dinner is the sort of awkwardly subdued affair that always happens when there's a parent there and no one's quite sure how to deal with it. Michael and Jeremy play footsie as mom asks about school, and Christine and Jake, and how Michael, weren't you thinking of joining the tech team for theater? Michael just nods politely and shoots an overwhelmed Jeremy a grin as Mom piles more spaetzle on his plate, insisting that he's getting too thin.

The moment their plates are clean, it's a mad dash to the stairs. Michael doesn't have Jeremy's long legs, so the asshole is already in the basement by the time he gets there, dragging their bean bags out from under the desk. 

Something in Michael relaxes when Jeremy takes his place on the blue one, shimmying into it until the back puffs up like the back of a chair. It looks  _ right. _

“Jer, my dude. What do you want to play?” He asks as he settles in next to him. 

Jeremy's face lights up like a Christmas tree, and Michael has immediate, pressing regrets as he pulls a silver disc from nowhere. “Double dash!”

“Jeremy, no.”

“Jeremy  _ yes. _ ”

Michael wants to protest, but Jeremy's acting like his old self instead of the ghost Michael sometimes catches wandering the halls of Middleborough in his place, so he rolls with it.

See, here's the thing about Jeremy and Mario Kart Double Dash. When he was nine, he had to go in to get his appendix removed, and was stuck in bed recuperating with only the comfort of Michael and the Gamecube his dad bought him as a reward for getting through the surgery. For weeks, the only game they had for it was Double Dash.

Needless to say, Jeremy spent all his time bedridden, and then the next three months, learning to speedrun the game, and making it, and Michael, his bitch. Playing against him is a goddamn Sisyphean challenge, a sort of hell that few men deserve to see.

It seems that SQUIP, if anything, made him better at it, or maybe that's just because Michael didn't even look at the game all fall, let alone practice playing it.

That was a mistake. 

All the button mashing in the world can't save him now as Jeremy drifts artfully by, clipping through one of the barriers on the track and skipping a whole hairpin turn. Michael is Dante in the inferno of Bowser's castle, as Jer-stopheles shows him the horrors of Koopa-kind. Wario and Donkey Kong are slaughtered in the wake of King Koopa and Princess Peach, then brutally mauled by Whomps as Michael looks on in abject horror. Another blood sacrifice to the local god of ancient racing games.

Jeremy cackles like a goddamn witch as Michael concedes defeat and sneaks up the stairs to grab some sweet, salty tribute. The kitchen is dark and quiet, his parents already in bed, but Michael still walks on tiptoe as he eases a bag of chips out of the cabinet.

When he comes back, Jeremy is capping a bottle of Mountain Dew Red, and licking his lips, which only distracts Michael a little bit.

“So,” He announces, and Jeremy spills half the bottle on himself as he jumps out his skin. “I never thought you'd actually  _ like _ the taste of that crap.”

Jeremy frowns at his shirt, where red is spreading across white like a blood stain. “Yeah. It tastes like sugar and regrets. Do you drink it?”

“The last time I saw someone drink that stuff, it ended in you having a seizure, so...” Michael shrugs. “Eh, I think I can let you be sad and alone when it comes to your Mountain Dew fetish.”

He can't help but grin as Jeremy sputters and goes bright red, choking on the soda. Michael sighs and thumps his back. “Take your time.”

Jeremy levels a glare at him, but he's smiling- not like, smiling smiling, but sort of a nervous grin. So that's pretty normal. “Okay, you're gross. Can I have some of this?”

The closet has a case of it, along with a few loose bottles from ebay, and Michael mourns the the Warcraft account and loot he had to sell to afford all of it. Admittedly he bought too much, mostly because he was expecting to have to deSQUIP Jeremy and Rich, and anyone else they got to, one by one. Obviously that didn't happen, but hey, proper preparation prevents poor performance.

Huh. MoonGoon should name one of their smut fics that.

Michael shakes his head and passes a few of the loose bottles to Jeremy, who eyes them like a man in the desert, hastily shoving them into his backpack where they clack softly against the books. “Thanks man.”

“Yeah yeah, I get you the good kush,” Michael says, squishing onto the beanbag with Jeremy. “You can have all the shitty Mountain Dew you want, if it keeps you from voring computers.”

Jeremy snorts and leans his head on Michael's shoulder. Michael takes a moment to thank god for whatever's made Jeremy so cuddly, and wraps an arm around his waist. It's easy to do that and forget there's anything else in the world. No SQUIP, no stress, just them, the steady glow of the TV screen, and the gentle crunch of them mowing through a bag of Pita Chips.

Jeremy, of course, breaks the silence. “My shirt is sticking to me.”

Michael sighs, because he is definitely not going to turn down seeing Jeremy in a wet tee shirt, and untangles his arm from Jeremy, who awkwardly extracts himself from the bean bag. “Fine, fine. Clean off your boobs. You going to bed?”

He rolls his eyes and nods, digging through the top shelf of Michael's closet. The pile of Jeremy's clothes had built up there since summer, when Jeremy started sleeping over more and more, and Michael hadn't had the heart to touch them during the SQUIP. 

Jeremy doesn't leave to change, which is a bit of a departure from the norm. Michael knows he sneaks into the bathroom to pull on his gym uniform for PE, so he's sort of honored that Jeremy trusts him enough, or is at least sticky enough, to let him watch him get undressed.

Unfortunatly, it is not in fact the strip tease of Michael's dreams. Jeremy changes quickly, pulling off his jeans to yank on sweatpants, and Michael has the decency to half avert his eyes instead of openly running them up the long line of Jeremy's legs. After a moment, he yanks off the cardigan, hands fumbling in an effort to get it off as quick as possible, followed by him practically ripping off the tee shirt. He's already pulling on a faded turtleneck by the time Michael can even process what he'd seen before he averted his eyes- jagged lines of pale, shiny  _ something _ skirting outward from the base of his spine. He catches Jeremy's eye for a second, and can't quite read his expression- a little sad, a little hopeful, a little desperate.

And then the moment is gone, Jeremy's smile and shirt is back, and stunned shock fades into a dull, sickly ache in Michael's chest. Part of him wants to push and prod and find out  _ what the fuck is going on,  _ but something keeps his mouth shut. Jeremy's been more self conscious than ever lately, and this is Jeremy's issue and he doesn't want to spook him, and the evening has been going so well, it feels...  _ wrong _ to pry on their first night really back together.

Michael stays quiet, lets Jeremy curl up under a mountain of blankets on the couch in the living room before padding back down to the basement. He pretends to not see the hollow look in his eyes, and pulls out his phone, because there's no reason to fret. If Jeremy's having a problem, he'll tell him.

He lets that thought override his worry as he taps out a message to MoonGoon. He needs the distraction, something that doesn't matter, with no consequences except for bad puns and worse porn.

** Hey dude, how's it going? **

_ Eh, sorta frustrated _

** Bad day? Did something happen? **

_ nah, i had a good time, but i'm just not getting what i want out of it _

** That sucks. My day was pretty chill. Spent it hanging out with my best friend. **

_ cool!!! _

_ so, uh, anyways _

_ i had this idea for a fic i think you're going to love _

_ and by love i mean i've written 3k and i want you to give feedback _

_ if you want to. _

_ again, i mean _

** Sure man, let me at it. **

* * *

Three weeks later, and Michael knows a lot more about MoonGoon. For one, he's also a junior in highschool, either lives on the east coast or has a hilariously fucked up sleep schedule, and has a religious devotion to his Nintendo Gamecube, which Michael can both support and relate to. On the flip side, Michael has become MoonGoon's go-to guy for proofreading. It's nice, knowing someone trusts him to make sure they're doing a good job. MoonGoon is, of course, obnoxiously nice about it, and that, as well as the steady stream of smut sent his way, keeps Michael on his toes, checking his Tumblr whenever he goes to the bathroom at school or has a free moment at lunch, much to Rich's eternal amusement and mockery.

They get into more planning stuff too. MoonGoon's great when it comes to writing fic, but shit when it comes to starting stories, like some sort of weird, inverted writer's block. Michael, on the other hand, has three black composition book filled with half finished first chapters, sprawling, complicated aus and character studies, and a million little snippets of description, too short to even be drabbles. It sucks, not having the patience to commit to one idea, WIPs littering the pages but never going anywhere, but MoonGoon is all over that shit.

It's nice working with him. MoonGoon has a talent for taking Michael's heavy, over complicated ideas and plans and assembling them into actual stories, smoothing down the unnecessary bits and tangents into a clean three act structure. For Michael, it's always been easy to block out stories and their every variation, plotlines growing out and tangling like unkempt ivy, but MoonGoon is great at finding the best combination of those ideas and weaving them together.

It's easy to help work on his WIPs, going through and suggesting descriptions wherever the story gets too skeletal. It helps slow his racing head and focus, because writing is simple like this, just trying to string together MoonGoon's words so that they flow and not having to worry about wrangling the actual plot. Still, it sucks that he can't return the favor, sit down and make something that affects MoonGoon as much his writing affects Michael. He's got ideas, sure, but none feel good enough for his weird internet friend-crush, let alone enough to keep his attention long enough to write out.

Regardless, his heart swells with pride every time he sees his name in the author's notes, sees MoonGoon thanking him for taking the time to edit his work, and reads through the comments on the fics. It's a nice thought, other people thinking MoonGoon's some sort of sex writing guru, and that by association, Michael is too.

They talk about other stuff too- school, video game releases, and of course, shipping preferences. It's nice, having someone to talk to, without fall's baggage weighing down on him, or having to explain why he spent months asking half the internet about squids and Mountain Dew Red.

Of course, it's natural that all the talk of fictional love lives awkwardly slides into talk about their real love lives.

  1. _is there a mister/mrs drarry i don't know about?_



_ because if there is, i want to apologize for sending their boyfriend so much porn. _

** Nah, just a hopeless crush on my best friend. **

_ lol, same hat!!! _

Michael frowns at the message, because okay, there goes any chance of getting with MoonGoon, but he shrugs and swallows down his disappointment, because long distance isn't a great idea, and it's not like he ever thought this would end in anything other than polite rejection. Besides, the next message is enough to distract him from the Hindenburg-esque tragedy that is his lovelife.

_ what's he like? _

** Is that free reign to gush about my crush and to pine over him for the next hour? **

_ absolutely. i always need fuel for my slow burn fic. _

** You're a goddamn menace. **

_ i've been told. _

** So uh, i've known the guy since we were practically in diapers, and yeah, that should probably like, make him totally unfuckable, but holy shit. **

** He's the coolest guy I've ever met, no offence. **

_ none taken. _

** He's got the cutest freckles and the softest hair, and whenever i'm feeling down he's just, always there? Even when he's not doing so hot. **

** Also, he does this thing where when I hug him he just sorta clings on and melts.  **

** It's too damn cute. **

_ heh, gaaay.  _

_ he's a lucky guy. _

** You're one to talk. Okay, how bout you? **

_ scuse you, i'm bi, and _

_ uhhhhhhhhhhhh _

** C'mon, I told you! **

_ it's sorta embarrassing. _

** Dude, you literally sent me a story where two guys licked eachother's assholes! **

_ that's different. that's business! _

Michael smirks, because A, the fact that it's the real life crush that MoonGoon finds scandalous and not the mountains of homoeroticism Michael's helped him write is hilariously myopic, and B. it's not like it's MoonGoon's job to write porn. 

Huh. Well it could be. That would probably explain a lot. Can you even get a degree in that?

He resolves to google it later as he taps his eloquent and dignified rebuttal.

** ASSHOLES MoonGoon!!! **

God, why isn't he on the debate team?

_ okay fine since you broke out the triple exclamation marks i guess. _

_ he's got glasses and they've got these hipstery wooden frames, but they actually look really really good??? _

** That's probably because wooden frames are fucking awesome. **

Michael pushes his up to rub the indents on the sides of his nose, then pats the frames back into place affectionately.

_ thanks for letting me know you're a hipster. this friendship is over. _

** Fuck you, keep talking. We aren't even yet. **

** I demand gushing. **

_ dick. _

_ when I stay over to study, he always buys enough candy for both of us or makes my favorite food _

_ and he is just _

_ so soft _

_ the fact that he's the least perceptive person on earth is sorta made up for by the fact that _

_ uh _

_ he got me out of a rough situation a while back. _

_ i pretty much owe him my life? _

** Ooo, mysterious dark and troubled backstory. **

_ lol, you must be a level four friend to unlock my tragic anime backstory. _

** Better start grinding then. **

Michael nearly adds on a winking smiley face emoticon, but thinks better of it and backspaces. MoonGoon's reply is quick.

_ i look forward to it. :P _

Michael's face is red as he lies there in bed, heart pounding, thinking of MoonGoon. It's official, he needs to write something, if only to get him just as flustered in revenge.

Speaking of hopeless crushes, the next day Michael nearly jumps out of his skin when Jeremy slips into study hall and practically throws himself in his lap. He's sputtering as he shoves his phone in his pocket, hiding the empty document- unhelpfully titled “A Pornography”- he was working on. 

“Dude, what are you looking at?”

“Nothing!” Michael yelps, face burning. “Jesus Christ!”

Jeremy snorts and grabs for it, but Michael captures his wrist with one hand and pulls his headphones down to around his neck with the other. 

Jeremy just grins and shoves his other hand into his pocket, and goddammit, it's fucking unfair he's stronger than him now, stupid SQUIP. Michael can feel the chair nearly fall over as they flail at each other, and he grabs at Jeremy until he's got both of his hands safely restrained. Jeremy just smiles like a dork, which is pretty much the Jeremy ideal. “C'mon Michael, what were you looking at?”

The earnest look in his eyes is irresistible, so Michael settles for a half truth. “Just the old Soldiers of the Stars Wiki page. I think they're throwing around ideas for a reboot.”

Jeremy positively beams, which takes Michael aback, because he distinctly remembers Jeremy swearing off the entire franchise in sixth grade after some middle schoolers made fun of them for it. “Dude, really? Are they going to do the uncensored plot or something? Christ, I'm hyped.”

“I thought you said Soldiers of the Stars wasn't cool?”

Jeremy winces, looks at the floor, and Michael backpedals. “No, I don't mean like, as a SQUIP thing, I mean as in you have a genuine lack of interest in it. Thing.”

“Oh.” 

Michael slackens his grip on Jeremy's wrists and instead rubs little circles into them with his thumbs, in a way he hopes is reassuring. It must be, because Jeremy unfists his hands and makes no move to break out of the easy grip Michael's got him in. “So, uh, what do you want to see in the reboot?”

Jeremy smiles and shrugs. “Something with a hivemind. Like, they visit a planet with one, and it's super creepy? And they have to figure out whether or not to disrupt it or leave it be. And there's a murder mystery or something.”

Huh. That's actually a really good idea. Kinda close to home, but it's not like he can blame Jeremy for projecting onto fictional characters, because Michael's drummed up an entire friendship based on doing that with MoonGoon. He can already see the ideas of the story branching out in his head, little details from the smell of the air to snippets of dialogue putting themselves together. He can feel his pulse quicken, because it's been ages since he's felt this eager to actually write instead of half assedly plot and plan.

“Dude, you alright?” Jeremy weasels out of Michael's grip and prods at his partly open mouth. “You're going to catch flies.”

“Great, actually. Stellar.” Michael babbles, gently pushing away Jeremy's finger before he sticks it in his mouth or something gross like that. “I'm just thinking, because that's a great idea.”

Jeremy smiles, open and honest. “Thanks. We should watch some of it together sometime. You know, my place.”

“What?” Goddammit, Michael's head is still playing catch up on this whole conversation.

“I mean, you hosted last time, so I figure I could have you over?”

Michael nods along like one of those desktop drinking birds.“Sounds good.”

Jeremy smiles and goes back to looking for a chair to drag over to their table, and Michael just cradles his jaw in his hands and thinks. 

He's mostly concentrated on debating how much this story's going to end like that one episode of Rick and Morty and carefully not mentioning the fact that Jeremy's idea is probably going to be perverted into terrible alien porn. Old Jeremy, his Jeremy, would probably be both embarrassed and secretly excited as hell, but this Jeremy has been weirdly silent on the awkward sex talk, which is kinda weird. Michael should probably feel blessed that he hasn't walked in on Jeremy jacking it since the SQUIP, but it just sort of feels-

_ Holy shit. _

Michael is pretty sure he has a stroke in that moment, and is ashamed of the obituary he's going to have. Probably something like “Michael Mell, scourge of the computer overlords and local high school nerd spontaneously combusted on February third because his Big Gay Crush sat on his lap while he was thinking about porn.”

Rich would probably frame it, and oh god, he can't think about that because Jeremy's getting comfortable, hands on his thighs as he pulls himself into a better position. Michael tries to think of anything and everything that isn't the way his fingers brush his waist, or how distractingly light he is, balanced on his legs, like Jake's Sbarro plans or Jenna's new phone or Jeremy's neck.

That last one is mostly because it's unfairly distracting and taking up most of vision, close enough he could lean forward and kiss it, make Jeremy moan under his touch, or more likely, freak out and never want to talk to him again. So he doesn't do that and instead, he just sort of... lets himself look. 

It's a little weird he's checking out Jeremy's neck, but he settles on blaming teenaged hormones and a desperate crush. He smells clean, like shampoo, fresh laundry, and that that sour apple gum Christine always buys too much of and shares with everyone. He lets out a shaky exhale, and just knows Jeremy's going to feel his gross coffee breath on the back of his neck and get up. That doesn't happen though. Jeremy doesn't scramble away like he expects, just sort of shivers and leans closer to Michael's chest. Michael goes cross eyed looking at his neck, because if he doesn't he's going to start thinking about how Jeremy's ass is pressed against his hips, and that is a one way ticket to death, or worse, bonertown.

So yeah. It's a nice neck. There's a little bit of a flush under his freckles, which dapple his skin from his hairline to the edge of his shirt. It's a little bit like looking at constellations, and Michael silently files the comparison into the folder in his head marked “Pickup lines I don't have the self confidence to use”, or more accurately, “Pickup lines to use in gay pronographic fanfiction”. 

Potato, potahto.

He lets his eyes skirt the edge of Jeremy's shirt, vaguely wondering what it'd be like to pull the neck down and suck hickies across his shoulders, and that's when he sees them. Little marks peaking up, looking for all the world like somebody's kid pulled out a white crayon and started drawing jagged lines on Jeremy. It's the same pattern from the sleepover, and now that he's this close, he can tell that it's definitely not crayon. 

The shiny, smooth look is definitely not wax, for one. Shallow scars, pale against the rest of his skin run up to tease the bumps of Jeremy's vertebrae, fanning out at the edges, like the barbs of a down feather, and Michael can't tell what to make of that.

“That cool with you?”

Michael blinks at Jeremy as he turns his head to face him. “I uh, what?”

Jeremy straightens up a little bit in what Michael can only describe as pride. “I said Saturday, if you don't have church too early on Sunday morning.”

“Yeah, we're going to the evening service,” Michael says, because god in heaven, he really does need confessional after this. “I'll see you.”

Jeremy grins and slides off Michael, pulling over a chair from the next table over and opening his backpack to pull out his homework, like he didn't just turn Michael's brain into useless, sappy goop. Michael awkwardly scoots his chair back in, and feels his lust addled brain run double time to figure out what just happened.

Jeremy's got scars all over his back, which is fucked up, but he doesn't seem to care about them. It's fucking Jeremy, body issues king, so if he's willing to shove them in Michael's face, then he probably doesn't give a shit. Besides, he's smiling as he works through the text for Lit class, so everything's gotta be okay.

Michael pulls out his phone and starts to write, if only to clear his head.

He's fine.

If there was a problem, if he wanted to talk, Jeremy would tell him.

Michael doesn't need to ask.

(Part of him doesn't want to.)

* * *

_ so yeah, that's how i ended up tied to a flagpole in sixth grade. _

_ the metal was really cold, but at least i untied myself before anyone saw. _

_ didn't even tell my best friend. _

** I'll admit, I was expecting more from your tragic backstory. **

_ that wasn't my tragic backstory, jesus!!! _

** Am I not a level four friend yet? **

_ nope, solid three point five. _

** You McWound me. **

_ never say that again. _

** I'm crying. This is cyberbullying. **

_ good. _

Michael sets down his phone for a moment, mindlessly going through the algebra worksheet, and debating his next move. As it so often does with MoonGoon, curiosity overcomes logic.

** MoonGoon, my dude. I have a question for you. **

** How'd you start writing porn? **

_ drarry's getting deep!!! _

_ why do you ask? _

** Eh, just wondering. **

_ really? _

** What makes a man wake up in the morning and write about teenagers from twenty year old tv shows having tentacle sex? **

_ well, drarry, there's this thing called puberty... _

** I mean yeah, aside from being a horny teenager. **

_ uh.... _

_ it's sort of embarrassing _

** Dude, I promise I won't make fun of you for it. I'm just curious. **

** I mean, what am I going to do? Run to the tabloids, shouting, **

** “Oh my god, a stranger on the internet writes homosexual porn! Scandalous!” **

** Besides, how often do you get to vent to someone with like, no repercussions. **

** Unless you like, killed someone. **

** Did you kill someone? **

_ uh. _

** MoonGoon? **

** I was joking. **

_ haha. _

_ i'm pretty sure i didn't kill him. _

** Lol. So, tell me your nasty porn secrets. **

_ jesus christ you're persistent. _

_ okay, fine, fine!!! _

He smiles, and scrawls the answer to the next graph. Michael's only halfway through when his phone practically lights on fire, MoonGoon is typing so fast.

_ it's just easy i guess _

_ i guess i'm too scared of what would happen if i actually y'know _

_ tried to get into someone's pants. _

_ yeah, i've dated, but uh _

_ well i mean, the last one resolved pretty well, but uh _

_ everything before was sort of a shit show. _

_ and i like _

_ argh _

_ i think that broke something in me _

_ i mean i freak out when i try fucking yanking it, cuz the dude hated it when i even thought about sex, let alone yknow. _

_ being with someone _

_ and _

_ now i don't want to mess up things with the guy i like, because we just started being friends again. _

_ i don't think i could take losing him again. _

Michael stares at the phone, homework forgotten, for a long time before he gets the next message.

_ so i write porn _

_ it feels safe _

_ and being able to write about it is more than i ever thought i would be able to do after that _

_ like, ever again. _

_ i feel like i'm taking back part of me, even if it's not that much. _

_ is that weird? _

** No, it's really not, and I'm sorry you had to go through that.  **

** I can relate to the safe thing though. If it's online, it just doesn't matter. There's no blowback, nothing. **

_ no pressure. _

** No rejection. **

_ no rumors. _

** No need to obey the laws of human anatomy. **

_ oh my god, that was a fucking joke, jesus christ. _

_ even i'm not into that. _

** You traumatized me. I can never hear the word rosebud without having war flashbacks. **

** And dear god, don't even talk to me about the part with the yogurt. Jesus Christ, that was the single worst metaphor I've ever heard. **

_ shuuuuuttttt uuuuupppp!!! _

** Constructive criticism is the backbone of improvement. **

_ argggh, we were having a moment!!! _

_ you monster. _

** If it makes you feel better, I'm pretty fucked too. **

** My best friend just... **

** I care about him so much, and he's been acting so weird, and I don't know how to help him. **

_ just be there for him. that's all you can do. _

_ and yeah, that doesn't make me feel better that you're life is sucking, but it's nice to know i'm not alone!!! _

Michael smiles at the screen and goes back to work. Five minutes later, there's the ding of a notification.

_ you're a smart guy. _

_ you'll figure it/him out. _

** Thanks. **

Michael's thumbs hover over the screen for a moment before he types, sends and shuts off his phone for the night.

** And for the record, I know stuff on the internet shouldn't matter. **

** But you do. **

** To me. **

* * *

Michael regrets never having this marathon sooner, because holy shit, this is fucking awesome. 

Jeremy passed out at about ten, which was a little bit sad, but something Michael was ultimately grateful for, considering that A, he was sleeping on top of him, and B, Jeremy was starting to get some serious bags under his eyes. Probably just the looming armageddon of midterms.

So yeah, he had an excuse. What was genuinely pathetic was the fact that Michael only managed to stay up for about another half hour after Jeremy. This was an unacceptable waste of potential cuddling time, because the chance to pet Jeremy's hair and hold him for as long as he wanted did not come everyday.

Michael wakes with that thought, staring blearily up at the glow in the dark stars on Jeremy's ceiling, but it's pushed aside by two things. 

One, Jeremy's still clinging to him like a koala, brow furrowed in sleep, and drooling on Michael's hoodie. It's cute as hell. They've fallen off their bean bags, piled awkwardly on the carpet with their blanket tangled around them like fish in a net. Michael's arm is all pins and needles from being squashed under Jeremy, but he still extracts it to pat Jeremy's head.

He frowns in his sleep and mutters something Michael can't catch. His breath hitches and goes into double time, and Michael gently shakes him awake.

His eyes snap open, wide and bright in the semi darkness, darting around the room frantically as he scrambles back. “Michael!”

“Hey Jer,” Michael whispers, trying to ignore the ache as Jeremy pulls away. “I'm here. Bad dreams?”

“Michael,” He says again, but it's not panicked this time, just an acknowledgement. “And... yeah.”

Michael nods, because he's had his fair share of nightmares too. They used to be the usual run of the gambit anxiety dreams- running late, being unprepared in class, making a fool of himself in front of the entire school- but ever since the SQUIP, they've been worse. He supposes that's what happens when you give the part of your brain responsible for scaring the shit out of you at night some real nightmare fuel. That isn't much comfort when he wakes up gasping, head filled with images of his friends shuffling towards him, zombified, of them screaming and collapsing as the audience looks on, bored, like their children aren't dying on stage, of Jeremy hurting him, putting him in a chokehold and strangling him on the cold hardwood of the stage, threatening to topple into the orchestra pit, or worse yet, of leaving him in the bathroom with nothing but his own head.

He sort of hates his subconscious for not being able to forgive Jeremy.

Either way, he doesn't want to talk about them, because there's about a million percent chance that it'll make Jeremy feel guilty and start apologizing again, and he's trying to make the guy feel  _ better _ , so he extends the same courtesy to him and just gives him a quick squeeze.

Jeremy relaxes in his arms, thank god, and Michael changes the topic away from sad shit, with the second thing he noticed when he woke up. “I want some slushies.”

The look Jeremy gives him is baffled enough to make Michael snort, but this is no laughing matter. He hasn't had a craving for slushies this bad in actual goddamn years. It's fucking freezing tonight, but he's freaking desperate for ice and corn syrup- any flavor, really, even cotton candy. Fuck, maybe all the flavors. He's a flexible guy.

“Michael, it's one in the morning,” Jeremy deadpans with only the briefest glimpse at his watch. “My dad is asleep.”

“But the cashier at Seven Eleven is not,” Michael says, wriggling out from under Jeremy. Wincing at the stiffness in his bones, he gets to his feet and shrugs on his hoodie. “We'll sneak out.”

“What, like, through the window?”

Michael nods at Jeremy's disbelieving expression. “Through the window. Live a little!”

Jeremy mutters something about wanting to live, not fall off the house, but takes Michael's outstretched hand nonetheless. “This is a terrible idea.”

“Relax! C'mon, indulge in some teenaged rebellion!” Michael crows and pulls Jeremy off the floor, who groans. “I'll let you sing Heathers in the car! I've got Freeze Your Brain on my MP3 player.”

He shakes the device for emphasis, and Jeremy rolls his eyes.

“I think I've done enough of that for a lifetime,” Jeremy says, but he follows Michael to the window anyways, picking up their shoes and handing Michael his sneakers. “In case you didn't notice, the whole thing sucked.”

“That didn't really count.” Michael unhooks the clasp, pushing the window up with a raspy squeak. “I mean, except for that part at the end. That was pretty rebellious.”

“I yelled at my dad, wasted money on expensive clothes and was a massive douchebag,” Jeremy grumbles, and there's a weird note to his voice, like Michael's looking at an optical illusion and he can't see the fucking duck in the rabbit or whatever. “It was like a midlife crisis but  _ worse _ .”

The frustrated tone Jeremy has is starting to worry Michael, so he doesn't say anything, just clambers onto the roof. It's better if they don't dwell on that. Michael sure as hell doesn't want to.

The shingles are harder to stay steady on than he really expected. The slant of the roof is worse than it looks like from the ground, but at least the enormous oak tree that Mr. Heere keeps worrying about crashing through the roof is pretty close by. Michael doesn't get why he's so concerned over it. It looks tough as nails from where he's sitting. 

Jeremy crawls ahead of him, and slings his leg around the bough of the tree. After moment of shuffling around he balances in a crouch on the thick branch. Michael watches as he carefully steps around the branches, until he gets to the bottommost one, and looks up at him. “You coming?”

Michael nods and pulls himself up onto the bough. It's a little easier now that he's seen Jeremy do it. He doesn't have his long legs, but he still manages to follow the path, picking his way across the bark until they're sitting next to each other, staring at the dead grass beneath them.

“I should probably jump,” Jeremy says, fidgeting with them hem of his hoodie. It's been getting warmer lately, but Michael still feels bad he didn't think to grab them coats. Oh well, the car has spare clothes for both of them.

“C'mon, you just ninja'd your way  _ down  _ the tree. It's six feet.” Michael pats his back and Jeremy sighs. “You'll be fine, Jer.”

Jeremy gives Michael a long suffering look and yelps “Eminem didn't die for this!” as he lets go, hitting in the ground in a three point landing that would make any action hero proud. After a moment, he pulls himself to his feet and gives Michael a thumbs up.

For all his reassurances, Michael is having doubts about the validity of this plan, and not just because Jeremy's taken to shouting about recently dead rappers. His head's running out every scenario he can think of, mostly the ones that involve him slipping and dying of brain bleeding or something as Jeremy looks on, horrified.

Fuck, he's getting distracted. Eyes on the prize, Mell.

With catlike grace he leaps, wind whistling in his ears, and for just a moment, he's weightless and nothing's holding him down, just-

-the sudden burst of pain as he falls on his ass, and can't even yelp as the wind is knocked out of him. Jeremy peaks into his field of view, kneeling over him, and offers a hand. Michael takes it gratefully and lets him help pull him up.

“Okay, now I just feel like a bad influence,” Jeremy chirps, and Michael follows him out to the driveway, where their majestic steed awaits. The PT Cruiser is technically Michael's, but Jeremy had helped him pick it out and repair the bruised upholstery, not to mention learned how to drive in it, so really it's more of a joint custody situation, though Michael did get it during the divorce, so to speak.

Jeremy makes a content noise as he slides into the shotgun seat, head lolling back against the rest. Michael grins at him as he plugs in the aux, and turns on today's “Greatest Song of All Time”, loud enough that neither of them have to talk.

The comforting thrum of the bass is more than enough to keep Michael wide awake as they drive to the Seven Eleven, cruising through the empty streets of suburban New Jersey. The store's close enough that they usually walk, but the night's chilly, and Michael  _ does _ have some concerns about what could happen if Mr. Heere found out they were gone. There's no need to risk being out for hours on end because they decided to walk

He risks a glance at Jeremy, who's got his chin in his palm, staring forlornly out the window. Michael can see his reflection in it, worrying his lip as he thinks about... whatever.

Maybe they both need a trip to Seven Eleven.

The convenience store greets them with the soft ding of the automatic doors and the cool green glow of fluorescent lighting. Jeremy wanders off into the aisles to study the nutrition labels on the boxes of cereal that Michael is pretty sure are exclusively marketed towards truckers. It's cool though. That's always been an exclusively Jeremy quirk, but Michael can still understand how it can be calming- just absorbing information without having to worry about comprehending it.

Besides, Slushies are a pleasure that deserves some sort of foreplay, even if it involves the dietary requirements of Apple Jacks.

Wait.

Fuck, that makes this sound weird. MoonGoon's infected him with talking about all his pornography- it's like that old saying, when all you have is a hammer, everything looks ready to get nailed. Like Jeremy.

Wait that was even worse, Jesus Christ. He's too tired for this shit.

Michael leans back against the staff door next to the weird hotdog-roller-treadmill thing, and pulls out his phone so he can try and distract himself from thinking about nailing Jeremy. After a moment of scrolling through reddit and failing to find anything good enough to pull his mind away from how Jeremy's hair is rucked up, he pulls open “A Pornography” and gets to typing.

It's coming along nicely, which is something weird to say about his writing. Admittedly, he did pester MoonGoon over how he manages to consistently stick to one idea, and while the first answer, coping mechanism and insomnia, wasn't much help, the second one, flowcharts, was. He's gotten the bare bones stuff out, and all the dialogue is carefully written. It was a good idea to work backwards like that, if only because now he just has to do the fun stuff, like descriptions. And porn.

Either way, he's got about six thousand words, and it hasn't gone full Rick and Morty, so Michael can't complain as he taps out a somewhat lavish description of the hive mind's uniform and Clyde's thoughts on it. God, he hopes MoonGoon can cut this down before it gets too purple.

Jeremy gently prods his arm, apparently content with the amount of Riboflavin in Cheerios or whatever, so Michael shuts off his phone and tucks it away. The phone is quickly replaced by an empty cup, and Michael blinks at it. “You didn't have to pay.”

Jeremy shrugs and pads over to the slushie machine. “Dad gave me some extra money for helping to shovel the drive after that big snow storm. I think this is a good use of it.”

He fills his cup to the brim with Blue Raspberry, capping it off with one of the weird domed lids and grabbing a straw. Michael, on the other hand is not a purist. The cups are clear and the perfect canvas for his art. He takes painstaking effort, grabbing a spoon from the counter and everything, to keep the layers of slushie cleanly divided as he goes through the flavours. It's a little bit like the sand sculptures they used to do in kindergarten, except instead of red, green and pink powder, it's Cherry, Sour Apple, Cotton Candy and every other variety in the machine. If he was more awake, he'd put them in rainbow order, just for the obligatory gay joke. He caps it off and toasts Jeremy, who's smiling tiredly at the parfait of slushie, as they leave the store.

Usually they go somewhere to drink, but it's the dead of night and Michael isn't crazy about getting stabbed or mugged or something because they decided to go chug slushies in a park. Instead, he settles on the curb, legs stretched in front of him. Jeremy shuffles in next to him, their knees gently bumping together.

The slushie parfait is sort of like play doh in that while it looks great, it's not exactly a taste sensation. Well, it's definitely a taste  _ sensation _ , as despite his best efforts, the flavors have begun to mix, giving the whole thing a vaguely metallic flavor. Still, sugar is sugar, and Michael and Jeremy sip in silence for what feels like forever until Jeremy finally speaks up.

“I hate this.”

“What?” Michael asks, turning to look at Jeremy, who's gripping the plastic of the cup hard enough to distort it.

“Not being able to sleep,” He says, staring a hole into the pavement like he can melt a hole through it by sheer force of will. “Freaking out in my own fucking house because it reminds of  _ it _ . That thing used to talk to me there. In my room, I mean.”

Michael nearly drops his cup, because that's the most Jeremy's said to him about what actually happened, vague as it is. Part of him wants to offer comfort, delve into everything wrong so they can catalogue them and fix it all in one fell swoop so they can go back to when things were sane and normal, or better yet, make it like none of this shit even happened in the first place.

He doesn't do that though.

“That's rough buddy,” Michael chokes out, and winces at the pleading, almost exasperated look Jeremy's giving him. Frustration churn in his stomach, because he doesn't fucking know what he's expecting from him, and Jeremy sure as hell isn't great at dropping hints.

Michael sighs and takes a long sip of his striated slushie, like if he freezes his brain, the numbness will keep him from having to deal with whatever's going on in Jeremy's head. “Well, the most important thing you can do is keep going. Move on.” 

Jeremy stares at his drink and frowns. “Right.”

“I mean, worrying over it isn't going to help.” There's a note of desperation to his voice that Michael prays Jeremy doesn't hear, because it feels like they're not on the same page anymore. Fuck, they might not be even reading the same book.

The thought sends a chill down his spine. The last time their friendship started to feel like this instead of the usual easy words and simple comfort, it had ended with seven people in the hospital and the near destruction of the human race, as well as whatever weird shit is now floating around Jeremy's brain.

Jeremy sighs and leans his head on his shoulder. His voice is flat. “Yeah.”

Michael can't find the words to make this better, they're too busy sticking in his throat like cigarette tar, so like usual, he doesn't say anything, just tells himself that gestures matter, that they're worth the words Jeremy wants, but Michael can't say.

That, and they're easier.

He rubs Jeremy's back consolingly and ignores the rippled scar tissue.

* * *

_ hey, uh, drarry? can i just like? vent to you? for a bit? _

_ it's been a long day and i don't really have anyone else to talk to about this shit. _

_ i mean, i've got friends now, and there's one of my buddies, but like, he's not really a talking person, more of a yelling person?? _

_ and the guy i want to talk to is just _

_ ignoring me _

_ so _

Michael's reply is instantaneous.

** Sure man, I am all ears. Like a fucking cornucopia of them. Shake the horn, buddy, I fall out. **

_ heh. _

_ i uh, don't really know where to begin. _

_ like, i told you that i was in a bad relationship a while back right? _

** Yeah? **

_ i just, god this is dumb _

_ i keep hearing him, like in my head. he used to like, tell me that i was awful, and that everything about me was just terrible, and that without him i was going to die alone and _

_ and i fucking believed him _

_ and i keep thinking about what he said and i just _

_ there's too many voices in my head, drarry _

** Christ man, that sucks. When was this? **

_ fall, i guess. i just, was in a bad place, and my mom had just left, and the guy who beat the shit out of me introduced us _

_ and _

_ god i was so fucking dumb, jesus christ _

** Okay man, I'm gonna have to stop you there, because I am not letting the self loathing train leave the fucking station. **

** You're a cool dude, MoonGoon, and you don't deserve to have one bad choice define you. **

_ it wasn't one bad choice, okay??? _

_ i did whatever he said, because i was that fucking lonely _

_ god, i was just a fucking asshole. for no reason. _

_ i yelled at my dad and dated someone just to get popular and roofied the school play and i didn't even realise something was wrong until i almost got raped and _

_ and my best friend kept trying to fucking _

_ stop me from ruining my life _

_ and i was just _

_ so terrible to him _

_ and he still stuck with me and i can't fucking tell why _

_ ugh, one fucking pill ruined my fucking life _

Holy shit.

Michael's brain freezes, shuts off, reboots, and then plays the little Windows XP start up jingle because holy shit.

Some parts don't match up, like the rape thing, but yeah, at this point the similarities are becoming too fucking much. He's not an idiot, he's noticed the familiar things about MoonGoon, but he's always brushed them aside, because there are seven billion people on Earth, and the idea of MoonGoon being...  _ him, _ was just too unlikely, like a bad lifetime movie.

He types the reply with shaking hands and hopes he doesn't give away the goddamn, Moses-on-Mount-Sinai level revelation he's just had.

** Maybe it's because you're just a cool dude? **

** He'd be a pretty shit friend to just let you stay in a relationship like that. Friends don't let friends get abused. **

The hypocrisy makes his blood sour. Some fucking friend he was, because Jesus Christ, Jeremy nearly  _ got raped, and abused, and holy fuck, what the hell happened in those months he was gone _ .

Michael sits back against the wall of his bed room, trying to breathe before this spirals into a full blown panic attack. His phone dings as Jeremy pours out his heart and soul, oblivious.

_ i guess _

_ its just _

_ god, he's so fucking perfect and i don't know why he's still around with this human dumpster fire. like he makes everything better just like, being there? and he's got this fucking swank hoodie and its just like _

_ so warm _

_ the warmest _

_ and i know its gross but like? sometimes i steal it and like? sniff it? _

_ jesus christ i'm so gay for him _

Michael's face is about to melt off. This is too much.

_ sorry, i'm rambling _

_ i should probably like _

_ cry myself to sleep. _

_ chem test tomorrow. _

Jeremy has a chem test tomorrow. It could still be coincidence, Michael's garbage brain stringing together what he wants to hear, but he distantly resolves to bring Jeremy some coffee in the morning anyways. It's the least he can do at this point, because Jesus Christ, what did that  _ thing _ do to him.

He types out his reply slowly, hoping MoonGoon doesn't notice the tremors in his hands.

** Good night. Message me in the morning, okay? **

_ i will. night. _

Michael doesn't cry himself to sleep, but he does spend the next hour staring at the ceiling, head filled to the bursting with speculation and regrets.

* * *

Jeremy's having an off day tomorrow, and Michael knows the minute he walks in the door. It's in the line of his posture, ramrod straight, shoulders back, and in the clothes he wears, artsy tee shirts and artfully ripped pants under a hoodie draped over his shoulders like a cape (also artfully). Michael feels guilt crawl up his throat. Maybe if he'd listened better, done more, Jeremy would be here, not this ghost.

Jeremy gives Michael a startled look when he taps his shoulder, but still gratefully sips the coffee Michael hands him without even bothering to dilute it with milk. It's like there's no caffeine in it all, because he barely fidgets during class- no jiggling his leg or boring holes in the desk with his pens, just watching the teacher and taking notes, eerily still.

It's unnerving enough that Michael drives to his house and back in record time during lunch, barely sneaking past the hall monitors on the way back in. He has to be sure.

The Mountain Dew Red he slides down the table to Jeremy doesn't soothe the horrible feeling of failure in his gut, and the fragile smile Jeremy gives him fails to reassure him, just makes the knot of guilt in his stomach twist. Jeremy takes it, twists off the cap, and chugs like it's an oasis in the desert.

He perks up a little bit after he downs half the bottle, enough that he hands it to Rich and laughs when he makes a joke about never getting to try it at the play.

There's a little bit of a spring to his step as they walk to sixth period together, which for Jeremy translates to a slump in his shoulders, and just sort of walking instead of the confident dude-bro swagger that doesn't match his expression at all.

Class passes without incident, but Michael can't stop staring.

It's like he's seeing Jeremy for the first time, a million little details he didn't really notice (or chose not to notice? God, he's the worst friend) until now. He flinches whenever he catches himself slouching, shies away from Chloe whenever she comes close, and averts his eyes whenever they walk by mirrors or windows, anything shiny enough to show a reflection. That, and he keeps looking at Michael like he's about to disappear.

The sinking feeling in his stomach tells him there might be precedent for that.

As he watches him, he fingers the slip of paper in his hands. Doing this via text felt too impersonal, and he doesn't need to have another regret about it. He isn't crazy about doing it today, but he knows he has to before he starts making excuses. Lying to himself, and Jeremy has done nothing to help actually fix things. He's tried putting a bandaid over goddamn bullet hole so he doesn't have to look at the painful things, remember that what happened was real, that it wasn't just him who suffered because of that stupid pill. It doesn't matter if Jeremy trusts him anymore, if he's lost his position of confident, this has to end.

He needs to rip it off.

That's why at the end of the day, when Jeremy goes off to hang out with Rich and Jake, he slips the note into his hand, and prays that his writing is steady enough to read.

Jeremy doesn't look at the little sheet of paper, and Michael pulls him into a hug one last time and tries not to think about why he buries his head into his shoulder.

* * *

_ Hi Jeremy, I found an author on Archive of Our Own you might like. His username is MoonGoon, and I think you'll really appreciate his work. _

_ Love,  _

_ Michael _

* * *

MoonGoon doesn't respond for the next few days. Doesn't post, doesn't reblog anything, and Michael's half scared he's going to delete his blog or orphan all his works or something.

Jeremy's acting weird too, which pretty much confirms his suspicions. He doesn't do the hugging thing, and keeps making furtive glances at Michael when he thinks he isn't looking.

Michael knows he should probably wait, because there are few things more awkward than finding out that you've spent the last few month ranting to your crush about him, writing kinky porn with the guy and talking about how the SQUIP fucked over your life.

Then again, there's that sickness climbing his throat, a potent mixture of worry, anger, and I-could-have-done-more. Michael's never been a patient guy, and if the shoe isn't going to fall, he's gonna fucking yank it down himself. Being passive hasn't helped. He's sick of fucking things up by not doing anything.

That's why he corners Jeremy in the empty halls after school, alone in front of his locker.

“Jeremy.” 

And then, because the Jeremy in question has sort of I'm-a-deer-in-the-headlights-wearing-a-trenchcoat-pretending-to-be-an-emotionally-stable-human look, and Michael doesn't know how to follow it up he blurts the first thing that comes to mind.

“You write some weird fucking porn.”

Jeremy looks like he just got caught stealing beanie babies, or something, hands tight around the straps of his backpack, face slack in horror. Michael fills the silence compulsively, because the only thing more awkward than this is the absolute goddamn silence that's going to happen if he shuts up.

“I mean, I really wish you had told me you had a porn blog instead of jumping a foot in the air every time I talk about sex.” Michael sort of tries to pass it off as a joke, laughing a little bit, like that'll hide the bitterness in his voice. “I'm sort of getting mixed signals here.”

“Mixed signals?” Jeremy chokes out.

“Yeah, it would have been nice to have talked over some of that shit in person. With me. Your  _ best friend, _ ” Michael says, worry making his voice jagged on the way up.

“Why are you so pissed?” Jeremy snaps, and there's that sharp anger Michael hasn't seen since the SQUIP.

“I'm pissed you felt more comfortable telling a fucking stranger you got fucking abused than your own best friend!”

Jeremy's face is cold, like black glass. “A stranger who actually gave a shit about how I was feeling! You could have asked, okay, instead of just- just, ignoring everything! You did this with mom, and when dad was fucking depressed, and, and-”

His voice cracks, along with Michael's heart, and they stand in silence for a moment. Michael can see the tears on his lashes, the panicked rise and fall of his chest, and reaches out to do...  _ something  _ to fix this, but then Jeremy is off like a shot, bolting down the halls and out the door.

After a moment of stunned silence, heart pounding in his ears, Michael takes a deep breath and chases him out into the rain. Jeremy's gone already, but he can see the muddy footprints on the sidewalk. He follows them, running until his breath tastes cold and metallic, because he  _ needs _ to make this right. The path loops around the woods, towards their houses, but when he reaches the river, the tracks cut off. 

Michael stops, panting and drags a hand through his sweat drenched hair. It's the old bridge, stone just as worn as it was when they used to play here. Michael's eyes dart around, taking in the river, swollen from the rainfall, the empty streets, the place where the underbrush has been trampled-

Shit.

Michael slips half way down the steep slope down to the water, splattering mud everywhere and banging his hip against a rock. He picks himself up and hisses as it throbs. Jesus, that's going to leave a bruise.

He looks up, and the sting doesn't matter, because there's Jeremy, tucked away in the shadows of the bridge, face buried in his knees. Michael doesn't try to be quiet when he walks over, but Jeremy still looks surprised when he sits down next to him. His eyes are red rimmed, and Michael can't tell if his face is soaked from tears or the rain.

“Hey.”

Jeremy nods in acknowledgement, but doesn't say anything, just hides his face in his arms.

“I'm sorry I yelled,” Michael says after a moment, voice soft and low. “I just... am worried. About you.”

Jeremy mutters something into his sleeves, but the rain is too loud to hear it. He doesn't say anything else though, so Michael frowns and keeps going.

“I know there's something wrong, but you never said anything so I...” He swallows thickly. “Ignored it. I'm sorry.”

“You did,” Jeremy says, flat and hollow, and Michael nods.

“You know you could have just told me, right? I mean, why didn't you?” Michael tries to keep the wheedling tone out of his voice, but it still slips through. Jeremy finally looks up, face torn between a grimace and a scowl.

“I'm a fucking selfish coward, alright? I wanted you to ask, so that I wouldn't have to- to tell you how much of a fuck up I am! If- if you asked, I wouldn't be able to lie, or weasel out of it!” Jeremy's voice echoes off the underside of the bridge as he fists his fingers in his hair. “It's fucked up, and I didn't want to scare you off again and I'm sorry, but I just... wanted to see if you'd notice. If you'd care.”

Michael's breath hitches, and the words ring around his head like a goddamn klaxon. Thunder rumbles in the distance, like the universe is shouting at him to  _ fix this _ .

“Jeremy. I care. I care so fucking much, and I'm sorry I didn't do more,” Michael sighs, and holds out his arm in invitation. After a moment of deliberation, Jeremy scoots in, and lets him squeeze his shoulders. “I was too caught up in trying to go back to normal, I didn't even try and see if... you were normal.”

“Real confidence boost there,” Jeremy mutters, voice wavering and stuffy.

“No, fuck, that's not what I meant.” Michael rubs the bridge of his nose, trying to bat away all the stupid words flooding his head. “God, this is way easier to do over text.”

“T-tell me about it.”

There's a long pause, with just the noise of the rain sluicing down the sides of the bridge to fill the silence. Michael takes a deep breath, and tries to sort the words.

“I thought... that I didn't want to push you into anything, and if something was wrong, you'd tell me,” Michael sighs, and runs a hand through his sopping hair. “I let that be an excuse to stick my head in the sand and I'm so, so sorry.”

Jeremy lets out a shaky exhale, and Michael feels him nod against his chest. “It's okay.”

Michael nods, and takes a deep breath. He has to do this, and he's sure that Jeremy can feel the way his pounding in fierce staccato, but he's crossed the line from psyching himself up to stalling, but he has to do this. Gently he puts a hand on Jeremy's shoulder, tracing little circles into it. “Jeremy, when you said all that stuff, about the abuse and' -god, the word digs into his throat- ”the rape, how much of that was true?”

Jeremy goes pale under his flush, and Michael wants to apologize, because he's being tactless, but Jeremy cuts it off. “All of it. I uh, changed a few details, because I mean, I wanted to tell someone, but I didn't want them to think I was nuts.” 

He laughs, a sad, wavering thing, and Michael holds him tighter, like he can clamp the broken pieces together. Maybe that's all he has to do, let Jeremy glue himself together and then hold the shards in place long enough to dry.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I want to. Later, I just,” Jeremy swallows, and rubs at his red eyes. “Not right now. I'm, uh, little overwhelmed.“

“I can see that.” Michael can't help the little smile on his lips, because they both are. “I'll be ready when you are. I promise I'll listen.”

Jeremy grins shakily, takes in one hitching breath, and pushes his face into Michael's hoodie, sobs muffled by the fabric. Michael just pulls him into a proper embrace and lets Jeremy cry on his shoulder, like he should have done months ago.

It feels right, sitting here and running his fingers through Jeremy's wet hair- it's getting long, almost down to his shoulders- and waiting until his breath evens out. Michael settles against the concrete of the bridge, and holds Jeremy, his Jeremy, until he stops crying.

It isn't perfect, but the gentle thrum of the rain, the ebb and flow of the flooding river, and of course, Jeremy warm against him, is it's own kind of comfort. Besides, at least he's on the right track to making it right.

“So, you actually steal my hoodie?”

Jeremy yelps and pulls away, and his face is incandescently red, but Michael can't tell if it's his usual flush or if it's from crying. “Oh my god.”

“And you like my glasses?”

“No, you can't pull internet secrets on real life me,” Jeremy whines. “That's weird.”

“Not as weird as your porn, holy shit.”

Jeremy shoves Michael, laughter a little bit hysterical. “You're the one who read all of it! And then, because that wasn't enough, helped me write it! You're a fucking accomplice, that's what you are!”

Michael sticks his tongue out at him, and Jeremy sighs into his hands. “God, I can't believe I'm friends with someone whose account name is fucking drarrymotter1015.”

“I was young and horny, okay? You can shut up, MoonGoon.”

There's a weird moment of silence, half awkward, half comfortable, and Michael just sort of looks at Jeremy, hair is still sopping wet, face flushed, because there's still an elephant in the room. A big, gay elephant.

On the bright side, he doubts he can make things any weirder between them. He takes a deep breath, and gets ready to fuck up.

“Look, I've been a shit, and you don't have to forgive me for that,” Michael sighs, rubbing his palm over his face. “But I was being honest when I was talking to MoonGoon, to you. I mean, when I said I loved you.”

Michael's got a whole speech ready, but Jeremy doesn't let him say a word more, just leans in and kisses him. It's short and sweet, barely lasts a second, but Michael can still feel his face burn as Jeremy pulls away, red faced and fidgeting with his shirt sleeves.

“Can we take things slow?” Jeremy isn't looking at him, instead focusing on a tangle of algae that's washed ashore. He laughs bitterly. “I mean, Christ, there's a reason I've only  _ written _ about sex for the last six months.”

There's that familiar ache, because old Jeremy would probably be jumping his bones right now, but Michael lets it go. There isn't an old or new or fucked up Jeremy, just his Jeremy, who's looking at Michael bashfully. “Of course we can.”

He stands and Michael follows him up, ignoring the ache in his side. 

Michael isn't really sure what's going to happen now, when it comes to them or the weird partnership they've got when it comes to their writing. Does taking things slow apply to gay fanfiction? He doesn't really know, but he does know Jeremy, so he fishes his phone out of his pocket. It feels right.

When he sees the time, he winces. “Jesus, I hope your dad doesn't get too pissed about curfew.” 

Jeremy shrugs. “Eh, he'll understand. He's getting better at that.”

Michael nods and watches Google Drive load up, tapping his fingers against the edge of the phone.

“I've got something I want to show you,” Michael says softly, and tucks the world's most awkward courtship gift in the pocket of Jeremy's coat. “I wrote it. For you.”

Jeremy fishes it out immediately, and takes a long look at the title of the document. His cheeks are pink, and his eyebrows are inching towards his hairline. “Did you seriously write me porn?”

Michael prays for a brain aneurysm to kill him and shrugs helplessly. Jeremy just cackles. “Oh my god. You're the worst!”

“Jesus christ, we were having a moment!” Michael shouts, as Jeremy wheezes into his hands. “I cradled you in my arms!”

“Yeah, you did.” Jeremy smiles and laces their hands together, and Michael holds on tight. “I can't wait to read it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading guys! Make sure to leave a comment or kudos if you enjoyed it- it means the world to me!


End file.
